TO GO and see a play like One Night In Istanbul is to be drawn back into the debate as to what purpose a piece of theatre is intended to serve.

Is it to make sure everyone has a good night out, in the coach-party-to-Fleetwood sense, or is it to engage the audience and take them on a journey around a theme?

On both counts, playwright Nicky Altt’s runaway success ticks the box, circling the theme of the eponymous night in Istanbul and Liverpool FC’s Roy Of The Rovers-esque triumph in the face of certain defeat.

At this stage in a review, one would normally outline the storyline, the plot, or whatever else one might call it.

In the case of this offering, however, there is little in terms of plot or storyline, less so in terms of character development or any other of those things some of us are bold enough to call the pre-requisites of a properly-formed play.

The choruses of “You miserable get, can’t you just have a laugh? Everyone else enjoyed it!” are already ringing around these ears, but one has to stand firm on some things: this is not theatre, this is an exploitation of a very special night in Liverpool’s footballing history, a night that we all remember well, but some of us can’t seem to let go of.

The “story”, if there is such a thing to be found, is of a bunch of Scouse Reds fans travelling to Istanbul to see their team . . . blah, blah, blah, you know the rest.

That’s the problem: we all know the rest, and the comings and goings on the stage feel like little else than the punctuation between the big-screen projections of the goals and the penalties at the end of the game.